


Take Off

by OswinWatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 13:07:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6080523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OswinWatson/pseuds/OswinWatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn't want to leave his brother behind. Thankfully, Moriarty comes back and Sherlock doesn't have to. Less thankfully, now Sherlock has a whole new reason to worry about Mycroft's safety.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Off

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luvbirds28](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=luvbirds28).



> I was inspired by a lovely comment from luvbirds28 to write this. I've been wanting to write this scene for years and the Christmas special gave me a good opportunity. Spoilers though!

Mycroft noticed everything. It was a fact that bothered Sherlock to no end. Around his brother, there were no such thing as secrets. He always knew the second Sherlock resorted to drugs. He knew when Sherlock and John were having a fight, he knew when Sherlock had stopped eating, knew even when Sherlock started sleeping with a light on after the night at the pool with Moriarty. And if Mycroft used this knowledge to scold Sherlock or deride him, it would be easy to just be angry about it, but Mycroft never did. He looked at Sherlock with those caring eyes that looked so out of place on the face of a man who had seen so much destruction. He would put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and remind him that he’d be there if Sherlock needed something, and then he would just drop it. Just like that. It was so astonishingly uncharacteristic of Mycroft that Sherlock would forget to be angry at all, angry that his brother won't let him have his secrets. It was something that he had gotten used to over the years, to the point where Mycroft’s subtle comments about the unhealthy things Sherlock was doing were routine.

Then came the day where Sherlock found himself standing in front of a plane that was waiting to take him away. The wind was blowing and there was a frigid chill in the air. Sherlock wrapped his coat tighter around himself and tried to look anywhere but his brother’s face.

“Sherlock...” Mycroft sighed and grabbed his brother’s wrist. “Look at me. Please.”

Sherlock forced his eyes to meet Mycroft's. “I’m sorry. This isn't easy.”

“No,” Mycroft agreed solemnly. “It's not.”

“I don't know what you want me to say.”

Mycroft laughed derisively at that. “You know exactly what I want you to say, you just don't want to because you think saying it will make you weak. You’d rather be cold and aloof. It's part of your style.”

Sherlock squeezed Mycroft’s fingers. “You’re right,” Mycroft smiled and Sherlock rolled his eyes. “For once,” he clarified. “I--uh,” he coughed lightly, “I’ll miss you, brother. I always imagined I spend my last days by your side. I'd rather be here, you know. With you.”

Mycroft smiled indulgently. “You wouldn't last five minutes in prison, brother dear.”

“That's true, but being so far away from you, from John and Lestrade, that’ll be its own prison,” Sherlock mused quietly. He shifted his gaze back up to Mycroft and squeezed his brother's hand even tighter. “I love you, My,” his eyes were wet now and for once he seemed at a loss for words. “I know things have not always been easy between us. And while I still blame you for most of it, I want you to know that in all that time I never stopped loving you.” He looked over to where John was, back turned and conversing quietly with Mary to give them some privacy. Mycroft, sensing his brother's hesitation, reached up to grab Sherlock’s cheek and turn it back toward him. They leaned forward for a brief kiss. Sherlock savored the taste of his brother’s lips, warm and bitter but with notes of sweetness, like the expensive liquor his parents had always hidden in the cabinets that only Mycroft was tall enough to reach. The moment didn't last long, but the familiarity of the kiss was enough to flush a sense of calmness and nostalgia through Sherlock’s veins.

Mycroft smiled and squeezed his brother's arm. “You’d have to be a fool to think I didn't feel the same way. Now go,” he gestured to where John was standing. “Say your goodbyes to him and make it good, you have a chance to give him closure this time. I think he deserves that.”

Sherlock nodded absently. Mycroft left sherlock standing there, staring at a far point in the distance, and motioned for John to join him. Mycroft didn't bother to watch his brother say goodbye to John, he simply lowered himself into the car and took several measured breaths to try and control his erratic heartbeat. When Sherlock’s plane was about to take off, he felt a sudden urge to stand up and watch it go, but his distaste for such openly displayed sentiment won over.

Sherlock sat in the plane, a sticky sort of calm having settled over him. He thought back to the morning, when he had pushed the needle full of drugs into his skin to try and numb everything swirling around inside. They had worked at first. For a moment the tempest inside was calmed to a gentle rain. But Sherlock had stated right into his brother’s eyes, drugs pumping in his veins, pupils dilated, emotions softened, and yet his brother said nothing. In fact, Sherlock was almost certain that Mycroft had not noticed at all. This was incredibly worrisome to Sherlock, considering the fact that Mycroft never missed something like that. To not realize something so paramount, Mycroft’s mental state must have been worse than Sherlock realized. The calmness he had felt earlier now left all at once, leaving him feeling cold and empty. His eyes watered almost imperceptibly, and his hand tightened around his phone, desperately fighting the impulse to call his brother and tell him he’d rather die than be away from him. The buzzing of the phone startled him out of his thoughts, and when he saw it was Mycroft, he had to take a deep breath to steady himself before answering.

“I’ve only been gone four minutes.”

He could practically hear Mycroft smiling through the phone.

“Well, I certainly hope you've learned your lesson. As it turns out, you're needed.”

Mycroft hung up and Sherlock let his head fall back, trying to fight the smile that tugged at his lips.

By then, he could really feel the drugs start to take hold. It was almost as if his blatant emotionalism had brought the side effects of the drugs crashing down on him. With his imminent departure stalled, his brother would definitely be thinking clearly enough to notice how high he was. It was at that point that Sherlock looked over to the small monitor at the front of the cabin and saw Moriarty’s face on it. His stomach clenched in a tight ball and the first thing he thought of was that Mycroft and John and Lestrade and Molly, they were all in danger. He could feel the landing gears of the plane drop as he frantically searched his mind palace for answers. The drugs cast a haze over his thoughts that made them hard to walk through. He couldn't tell what was real and what was imagined anymore. It was disconcerting, feeling his own mind betray him.

At some point, he opened his eyes to see Mycroft and John and Mary standing in front of him. Mycroft looked concerned, his worry still deep set in his eyes. Sherlock tried to smile, tell him it'd be okay, but his thoughts went back to Moriarty, to all the answers he still didn't have and he couldn't bring himself to lie to his brother. Mycroft sighed and asked Sherlock for the list. John looked confused. Sherlock wanted to laugh. He hated everything about this situation. He wished he didn't have to explain it to John, who would inevitably want to know, but Sherlock hated thinking about those days when he woke up on the floor of some crackhouse, unable to take care of himself, with a teary-eyed big brother standing over him saying “oh Sherlock, what have you done?” like his heart was broken, and it probably was. He didn't want to have to explain to Mycroft how much he loves him, how much it hurt to leave, how he couldn't do it without the drugs. And Mycroft would say that it hurt just as much for him, and that he didn't need the drugs, and no matter how much Sherlock insisted they were different people, Mycroft wouldn't believe him. That's the problem with loving your little brother, you never want to believe that he can't change the things that are wrong with him. Sherlock didn't laugh, he held all of his frustration and bitterness inside and said nothing. The only thing he could do now was to figure out how Moriarty was back and save them all, so he quietly closed his eyes and slipped back into his mind palace.

Mycroft was there inside his mind palace. He was always there. When Sherlock couldn't figure out an answer he always imagine Mycroft there, figured that if he pretended to be as clever as his brother, maybe it would help. But this time in his head, Mycroft was obscenely large. He gambled with Mycroft’s life like it was expendable and watched his brother do the same. It killed him to watch the scene play out, as if he hadn't thought enough about losing Mycroft lately.

And then he thought he woke again. Sherlock was talking to Mycroft and John, telling them that he had an answer if only they'd listen. And Mycroft looked at him with those eyes, the ones that made Sherlock want to punch him and kiss him at the same time, and Sherlock pressed his lips together and silently pleaded that Mycroft would do this for him. Mycroft raised his eyebrows and said “I’d do anything for you, dear brother,” and smiled.

Then they were digging out the woman’s grave and Lestrade was there and Sherlock was so glad to see the man. Mycroft stood over Sherlock as he shoveled dirt out of the hole. They passed the hours talking of pointless things, avoiding topics like drugs and childhood. They played mind games that Mycroft almost always won, and Sherlock could tell the only times he didn't were because he was distracted.

But then the woman wasn't in her tomb, and Sherlock felt suspiciously like he was in a horror movie. The woman came forward, screaming at them not to forget her, and Sherlock felt truly afraid. He looked to his brother but Mycroft showed no fear, only overwhelming concern for his little brother and it made Sherlock feel sick.

And then he woke up for real.

He opened his eyes to see John leaning over him. He smiled, “miss me?”

He looked over to his brother, who looked concerned. Sherlock sighed with impatience. Mycroft held up the list, “I'm almost glad Moriarty is back if it'll save you from this.”

Sherlock stood up and stumbled a little, Mycroft rolled his eyes but let Sherlock snatch the paper from him anyway. He ripped it in half and let it fall to the floor.

“No need for that now.”

Mycroft looked sad, not distrustful but close to it. “Promise me that, Sherlock,” he whispered softly.

Sherlock wanted to lean forward and kiss the man, or strangle him, or swear up and down that it was true. Instead, he looked around the Cabin and saw John and Mary.

“What are you still doing here? Shouldn't you be off getting me a pardon?”

Mycroft smiled and Sherlock hoped that he knew the real meaning behind the words, the unspoken “I love you, I promise,” there.

He got off the plane and didn't look back because he knew that Mycroft would pick up the paper that he dropped when everyone left. Instead, he waited out by the car and watched John and Mary look at him worriedly from where they stood. Eventually, Mycroft walked off the plane and slid into the car. Sherlock followed suit. Sherlock reached for his brother’s hand and held it tightly, hoping it could convert the things that he couldn't.

“Let's go home, Mycroft. We have work to do.”

Mycroft leaned coward for a drawn out kiss.

“That we do brother mine.”

Sherlock smiled, “I love you, Mycroft.”

Mycroft squeezed his hand tighter. “And I, you, Sherlock.”

The leaned against each other and let the driver take them away from the airfield. 


End file.
